


i'll be dead before the day is done

by troubadore



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Brief mentions of canon-typical violence, Ghost Jaskier | Dandelion, Humor, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore
Summary: As he listens, Geralt can make out the ghostly sounds of a lute, seeming to come from all directions and nowhere at once. Faint humming accompanies the melody, before a voice, surprisingly warm and rich, begins singing lyrics.It sounds like Elder, which makes his eyebrows raise, because he'd been under the impression no elves had been in this particular area for at least a century. Probably a well-educated bard, then, when he'd been alive.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 285





	i'll be dead before the day is done

**Author's Note:**

> apparently i have this thing for jaskier being a wraith or spectre so here i am with more dead jaskier i guess ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿
> 
> i didn't really have a plot for this so this is more introduction into a larger au and any plot that does happen will happen in future installments

Geralt can tell, as he steps into the manor's grand foyer, that the place hasn't been abandoned for long. 

The tapestries depicting various figureheads and battles are still vibrant, if covered in a bit of dust, and none of the walls or flooring are crumbling or eroded. The windows, like the tapestries, are dust-covered, but intact. In all, he thinks no more than half a year has passed since the previous occupants took their leave. 

Strange, then, that the lord who'd lived here would only now be hiring a witcher to rid the halls of his home of whatever spectral being is supposedly haunting them, Geralt thinks, but he makes a point to not involve himself in the motives of man, so he casts musings of them aside and focuses his senses. 

As he listens, Geralt can make out the ghostly sounds of a lute, seeming to come from all directions and nowhere at once. Faint humming accompanies the melody, before a voice, surprisingly warm and rich, begins singing lyrics. 

It sounds like Elder, which makes his eyebrows raise, because he'd been under the impression no elves had been in this particular area for at least a century. Probably a well-educated bard, then, when he'd been alive. 

Geralt slowly makes his way through the halls of the manor, peering into rooms as he searches for the source of the music. It's calming, and Geralt finds himself more at ease than he'd like as the gentle lullaby follows him around. It ends almost too soon, but another takes its place a breath later, and Geralt resigns himself to a not wholly unwanted background music score. 

The lower floor rooms turn up nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly no spectral beings with lutes or impressive vibrato. They're a little barren, perhaps, lacking the furniture and decor one might expect—removed when the lord took up residence elsewhere, no doubt—but nothing that sets his senses off. The dining hall and kitchens are the same, empty of signs of life and covered in a light coat of dust from disuse. 

Geralt moves upstairs. The music, oddly enough, seems louder, more focused, and he knows he's on the right track. It'll be the last room he looks in, he knows, but, well—isn't it always. 

He searches them all, regardless. The master bedroom is empty as the rest of the manor, naught but clean, if stiff, bed sheets and a few shirts left in the wardrobe. He does a thorough search anyway, just in case, but it all seems normal, no cold spots or signs of ectoplasmic residue.

Many of the guest rooms are the same. Geralt goes through each of them, turning up nothing but more dust, abandoned clothing, and a handful of forgotten rings and brooches with genuine gemstones and real silver and gold he pockets for selling. 

A delicate necklace on the floor of one room catches his eye, a choker of deep blue velvet with a resin-cast pendant hanging from it. A small yellow flower is encased within, and Geralt turns it over in his fingers, admiring it. Handcrafted, if the slight warping in the resin is any testament, but obviously cared for and well-loved. Ciri might like it, he thinks, so he decides to keep it. 

The sounds of the lute being strummed lively and quick interrupt his thoughts, that ghostly voice slipping into something brighter and this time in the common tongue, and Geralt slips from the room to continue his search for the source. 

At the end of the hall, Geralt comes to a receiving room of sorts, connected most likely to another master bedroom—belonging to the lady of the house, where she could retire away from her husband perhaps. It's as barren and empty as the rest of the place, with only a few pieces of furniture left scattered around. A set of doors on the opposite wall stand open to reveal a balcony, letting fresh, cool autumn air into the otherwise stale room. 

It's on the balcony that Geralt sees him, perched on the balustrade. His head is tilted back, eyes closed, as if enjoying the warmth of the last sun rays of the day on his face despite being an intangible ghostly being—there's a transparency to him and he casts no shadow, the sun beams passing right through him. His dark hair is artfully tousled, his skin pale and unblemished, and there's an air about him that stirs something deep in Geralt's gut that feels a little like hunger. 

Practiced fingers draw sweet sounds from the lute in his lap, and his voice is even better up close, strong and clear as he sings what Geralt recognizes to be a popular shanty with the local seafaring people half a continent away. Well-traveled as well as educated, then. 

Geralt makes no noise—he knows he doesn't, because witchers are built to be silent hunters—but suddenly those deft fingers are still on the lute, his song cutting off, and Geralt finds himself rooted where he stands as the ghost pins him with intense, bright blue eyes. 

He stands abruptly but makes no other move toward or away from Geralt; he simply watches him, a surprising lack of wariness to those blue eyes, instead just curiosity and a not insignificant amount of heated interest—Geralt suddenly has an inkling as to how, exactly, this stunningly pretty bard must have met his end. 

The bruise across his throat, dark and in the shape of a large hand, as well as the bloodstain on his chemise at the base of his ribs, tells the story perfectly. 

"So, which was it?" Geralt asks, breaking the not uncomfortable silence between them. The bard's eyebrows raise. "The lord or his wife?" 

A pleasantly surprised grin splits the bard's mouth and he laughs, a bright sound. "That I slept with?" he asks, and his voice is as rich as his singing. "His wife. We'd been having an affair for—oh, a month, I think? Before he noticed. Longer than I'd expected, to be honest. Thought for sure he'd suspected something within the first week, really, I wasn't at  _ all  _ subtle." 

Geralt grunts at this, because just from the look of him he'd figured as much. Even faded and slightly transparent in death, everything about this bard screams  _ Look at me! Pay attention!  _ Geralt hates that it absolutely works. 

"Now, now," the bard placates, as if Geralt's hum was of disapproval, "I couldn't really be blamed, could I? Not my fault I know how to appreciate beauty, and his wife was  _ lovely."  _

"She was still his wife," Geralt points out, and the bard snorts. 

"Not by her choice," the bard mutters, and Geralt is surprised by the dark tone. "Nobility never marries for choice. Sort of a thing with them, you know. She didn't love him, and he didn't love her—not a particularly uncommon phenomena in these circles. So I loved her in his stead, and she loved me." 

He pauses, then says, softly, "I was her choice, at least for the time." 

And Geralt...understands. He understands having your choice taken away and fighting to get it back in whatever little way you can. Even if it is only in the choice of who you have an affair with. 

But Geralt cares not for the affairs of men nor why they have them, and it's certainly irrelevant to his purpose here now. 

"What's your name?" he asks, in lieu of anything else to say. 

The bard brightens up immediately, and Geralt watches with bemusement as he makes a grand, sweeping bow, one arm out and the other bent around his waist. 

"Julian Alfred Pankratz, most popularly known as Jaskier, master bard, at your service!" 

Vaguely, Geralt thinks the name is familiar; he's probably heard a song or two accredited to him while passing through the larger academic cities, but nothing he could name specifically. 

Jaskier straightens back up and beams at him, blue eyes bright and guileless, and Geralt thinks he's definitely the strangest spirit he's ever met. 

"Well, Jaskier." Geralt crosses his arms and tilts his head. Down to business, he supposes. "You don't happen to know what's keeping you here, do you." 

At this, Jaskier rolls his eyes, his shoulders sagging and his entire demeanor changing to something a little less enthusiastic. He reaches for his lute, bringing it back to his front, and settles his hands in place. Natural as anything, but Geralt recognizes the defensiveness in it all the same. 

"Figures," he mutters, eyeing Geralt shrewdly. "Too good to hope that you just stumbled in here on accident, hm?" 

Geralt gives him a judgmental look. "Do I look like I stumbled in here?" 

"No, not really," Jaskier concedes. His eyes rake over Geralt, obvious appreciation in the way he bites his lip, and Geralt doesn't fidget under the blatant desire by sheer force of will. It's not unpleasant by half, but still. 

Jaskier meets his eyes again, his own a shade darker. His mouth curls up a bit at the corner. "You look like you could bend me in half and I'd enjoy every moment of it." 

Geralt decides not to deign that with a response. He doesn't have one, anyway. "Hm." 

"Do I at least get to know the name of the very attractive man come to banish me from this plane of existence?" Jaskier asks, batting his eyes and plucking a scale out on his lute. It's almost endearing, really. 

Geralt grunts. Then, reluctantly, says, "Geralt. Of Rivia." 

Jaskier's eyes light up again, this time with genuine excitement. " _ Oh,  _ I might have known! The white hair! The two big, very scary swords on your back! Your medallion—you're the witcher!" 

Well. He's certainly  _ a  _ witcher. "What." 

"I heard of you," Jaskier says, almost in awe, "before—before. Well." He gestures at himself, at the way the fading evening sunlight spills right through him because he's intangible. Because he's  _ dead.  _ "They called you the—" 

"Don't," Geralt says, sharper than he'd intended. Jaskier's mouth snaps shut, and he loses some of his enthusiasm, looking hurt. Geralt, oddly enough, feels bad about it. "Please, don't." 

Understanding washes through those blue eyes, and Jaskier nods, plucking at his lute's strings. "Forgive me. That was insensitive." 

"It's fine," Geralt says. 

"Obviously it's not," Jaskier says, but he offers a small smile. "Anyway. What an honor, though! Truly. I'd wanted to meet you, you know. Thought you'd be just the perfect muse for a bard seeking a grand adventure to tell of." 

"I'm no muse," Geralt says awkwardly, after a moment. It makes him feel—warm, though. Pleased. That someone would think of him in such a kind way without even meeting him. 

"That is for me to decide." Jaskier winks. He plays another scale, then transitions into the beginning of another shanty Geralt is vaguely familiar with, from a different coast than the one before. "Anyway. So how's this work? You—" He waves one of his translucent hands toward Geralt, "—do your, your witchering, or what have you, and then I'm gone?" 

It's more amusing than it should be, and Geralt presses his lips together to keep from smiling. "Something like that." 

Jaskier makes an unimpressed noise and the riff he plays is distinctly unapproving. "What a terrible waste," he laments. "My death was bad enough, of course, but now the world will truly be deprived of what little talent is left in it." 

"A talent for being an absolute bastard?" Geralt asks innocently, and Jaskier glares at him in outrage. 

"I'll have you know I was the best bastard to walk the Continent," Jaskier huffs. He lets go of his lute and puts his hands on his hips. Geralt is sure it doesn't have the effect he thinks it does. 

"I'm sure," Geralt drawls. "But I do need to know if you know what's keeping you here. Otherwise I'll have to do this the hard way." 

Jaskier looks too curious for his own good when he asks, "And what's the hard way?" 

"I find your body to burn the bones and force you to move on." 

"What's the easy way?" 

"If I can help you finish whatever business is keeping you here," Geralt says, "then you can move on peacefully. You're not a wraith, so whatever way you died either wasn't needlessly gruesome and brutal, or it  _ was  _ but you felt you had it coming." 

"Well," Jaskier says, lips pursed as he looks down at himself, at the bloodstain on his chemise, "I don't know that I'd say it was  _ deserved,  _ but I certainly can't say I  _ didn't _ see it coming." 

At least he's self aware, Geralt thinks. "Do you know where your body is?" 

Jaskier snorts. "Probably halfway to Skellige by now. I'd always said I wanted to be buried by the coast, but this isn't exactly what I had in mind." 

"They dumped you in the river?" For some reason, this upsets Geralt. A bastard Jaskier obviously had been, but he'd deserved a proper burial, if nothing else. 

Jaskier shrugs, careless and uncaring. "It is what it is. I'm not losing any sleep over it." 

He's not sleeping at all, Geralt thinks, but he only hums. Looks like the hard way is out, and suddenly it doesn't seem like the hard way anymore. Time consuming to hunt down a body, certainly, but at least there would have  _ been  _ a body. Now, it seems as if it's down to Jaskier to figure out why he's stuck in the in-between. 

"Anyway!" Jaskier claps his hands together and there's a certain gleam in his eyes as he smiles at Geralt. "I suppose this means forcing me to move on is out of the question?" 

He sounds too happy about it, too relieved, and a part of Geralt, small though it is, feels shame and guilt for telling Jaskier he's supposed to get rid of him. The youthfulness of his appearance says he was taken from the world too soon as it is. 

Overall, Geralt thinks he's harmless. He's not malicious, if what the lord had said when he hired a witcher for the job has any merit. Annoying, yes, singing and playing his lute and startling the staff and guests, but not dangerous. 

He's also not vengeful. Hasn't mentioned wanting to get back at the people who wronged him even once. Less of a chance of becoming a malicious spirit. Will probably stay, if not benevolent, then at the very least neutral. Geralt thinks maybe— 

Maybe he just wants to continue singing and playing his lute. Wants to continue hoarding tales of great adventures and spreading his love to whomever will take it. 

With a grunt, Geralt says, "I suppose. It'll be down to you to move on yourself." 

The gleam in his eyes dies a little, but he still offers a small, apologetic smile. "I'll try, but I honestly have no idea what might be keeping me here. No unfinished business that I know of." 

"Everyone has unfinished business," Geralt says, looking out the window where the sun is finally setting beyond the horizon. Night sweeps in, gentle as a caress over the land. 

They share a moment of contented silence as the sounds of night life creep into the room. Eventually, Geralt turns on his heel. No point in lingering any longer. 

He feels a thrum in the air that indicates Jaskier is following him. "Where are we off to, then?" 

Geralt looks over his shoulder at him. "We?" 

Jaskier just grins at him, skipping ahead to walk backwards in front of him. "I have this feeling," he says, cheeky, "your job was actually to just get me out of the manor. Would hate for you to be swindled out of your rightful pay on a technicality." 

"I got the pay up front," Geralt says, but he finds his lip curling up anyway. "I don't trust nobles." 

"As well you shouldn't," Jaskier agrees. He pulls his lute back around. "But anyway. We. I've heard the stories of you, Geralt of Rivia, and I, personally, think you could do with some new ones." 

Geralt grimaces. "I don't need a barker." 

Jaskier raises his eyebrows and gives him a look full of judgment. "That is exactly the attitude that means you do. Either way though, you're stuck with me. I can't stay here—don't really want to anymore, really. You are  _ infinitely  _ more interesting than the back terrace." 

He gives Geralt a cheeky wink and Geralt sighs. This is the thanks he gets for being soft, he supposes. 

"Also," Jaskier adds, stressing the word, "maybe this will help me figure out what I need to move on! I did say I wanted to tell of great adventures, didn't I? Well, maybe that's my unfinished business! And who better to tell of than Geralt of Rivia, the, the White Wolf witcher? Oh, that's good, I like that. Got a nice ring to it, don't you think?" 

As they exit the manor, Jaskier begins strumming on his lute, humming a tune that eventually he starts putting lyrics to, drawing them out of the air as if he's plucking them from a shelf like a favorite book. 

It's...nice, actually. 

"So," Jaskier says, pausing his composing as Geralt mounts up on Roach. "Where to?" 

Geralt looks down at him, then at the pendant he still has clutched in his hand. He'd nearly forgotten it—it's vibrating, ever so slightly, in his palm. The blue velvet goes well with Jaskier's eyes. 

"Wherever there are contracts," he answers finally. "After that, Kaer Morhen." 

"The witcher keep? Up in the mountains?" 

"Mm. My daughter is there." 

Jaskier blinks at him. "You have a daughter?" 

"Mm." 

Geralt nudges Roach and she starts off, leaving a wide-eyed, grinning Jaskier to catch up with them. He goes right back to composing, and Geralt relaxes into the rhythm of his current melody. 

Under the moonlight, Jaskier's ethereal form almost seems to glow. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you have anything you'd like to see in this au let me know! 
> 
> hit me up on [twitter](http://twitter.com/troubadorer) or [tumblr](http://geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek.tumblr.com) and say hi or yell with me about creature jaskier~!


End file.
